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THE PROMISE 



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THE PROMISE 



A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



BY 
BRANDON THOMAS 



PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION ONLY 



188S 



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CHARACTERS. 

The Count A French Noble, in exile. 

GUALTIERI DEL Ancora . . A Painter from Rome. 

Francois Servant to the Count. 

Marguerite ...... The Count's only child. 

SORELLA (a peasant girl) . . Foster-sister to Marguerite. 



EARLY FLORENTINE PERIOD. 




THE PROMISE. 



^ttnt* 



Garden of the Count's villa, near Florence. The curtain rises 
upon the dying glow of sunset, which changes to moonlight. Gual- 
TiERi discovered on stone garden-seat in pensive attitude. A 
nightingale is heard singing in the grove. 



Hark 



LtUALTIERI. \_Raising head, listening. 

't is the nightingale. So soon ? yes, the sun 



is set, night draws near, and the hour approaches when 
I must leave this place for ever. My heart throbs like 
some wild, prisoned thing, beating its life away against 
its bars for freedom. Sing on, songbird of the night ; 
there is such sadness in your note that sorrow needs 
no tongue for words while you but sing. Speak thou 
to her, to whom I may never say one word of love. 



Tell her there is sorrow even here, near to her. Say 
that you have found one poor heart wherein the light 
is gone for ever and eternal night is come. 

[^Enier SoRELLA. 
SORELLA. \_Aside. 

He is there ! If I could but bring them together 
before he goes, he might yet speak. [ To him\ Signor. 

GUALTIERI. 

Mademoiselle ! 

SoRELLA. 

Hush, signor ! it is only I, Sorella, her poor foster- 
sister. \Aside\ How shall I speak to him. \_To hiin\ 
Are you not tired to death with all the praises heaped 
upon you to-day ? 

GUALTIERI. 

All have been most kind. 

Sorella. 

The great people are gone, and the poor picture 
stands there in the lonely room like a spirit; it is so 
real, it frightens me. 

Gualtieri. 
Cunning child, you are the greatest flatterer of all. 

Sorella. 
And do you really leave us to-night? 

Gualtierl 
Yes. The horses will soon be here. 

oORELLA. [ Quickly and with caution. 

I must speak with you before you go. 



7 

GUALTIERI. 

Of what ? 

SORELLA. 

Not now ; the Count is coming to see you. I will 
watch, and find a time. You will not go without seeing 
me ; promise. 

GUALTIERI. 

But, child, time speeds, and I 

SoRELLA. 

Promise ! 

GUALTIERI. 

Well, I promise. But why ? 

SORELLA. 

Why ? Because the moon is melancholy. Because 
pride is dumb, and love is blind. Because [music 
heard, offJ] — listen ! 

[Marguerite sings, off. 

Ah, gentle nightingale ! 

Hush thy poor song. 
Why pour so sad a tale 

Night winds along ? 
Thy throbbing plaint so clear 
Fills my poor heart with fear, 
Songbird, thy note I hear, 

Lonely art thou, and I 

Listen and sigh. 

[Music dies away. 
oGRELLA. \_ToGvkWlEKl, with meaning. 

Do you hear ? Hush ! 

\_Exif, quickly. 
GUALTIERI. 

Her voice ! [Nightingale sings] Songbird of the 
grove, what magic is there in your note that makes her 



8 

song, to-night, the very echo of my own heart ! And 
I may not speak one word to her ; my promise to theV 
Count binds me; he was wise to exact it, for how could 
man look upon her and not love her ? And, even if 
she loved me as I love her, what am I ? I am not of 
her station — would that fate had willed it otherwise, or 
would soften the hearts of those who hold these things 
so dear. Patience, I shall soon be gone. They have 
called my picture a " masterpiece." Master ! master 
for a day, slave for a life-time ! \_Enter the Count] I 
shall never paint like this again. 

Count. 

Nay, my son. It is ever thus when such work is 
done. When the poet lays down his harp his soul 
despairs as if the teeming heart were all outpoured. 
Give yourself but rest, and hope and fancy will dance 
as lightly on their way again, as if there were no such 
things in weary life as toil and sleep. 

GUALTIERI. lAside. 

If he but knew. 

Count. 
Signor, your task is done. 

GUALTIERI. 

'T was no "task." 

Count. 

Ah, genius carries labor lightly. And, to-night, you 
leave us for Florence. To-morrow's dawn will see you 
on your homeward way to Rome. 

GUALTIERI. 

Yes, the end is come, I go to-night. 



9 

Count. 

It has been a new and happy page in my life to 
watch you at your work ; to hear you speak the 
thoughts warm from your heart, and to share with you 
the joys or disappointments of the hour ; and, now, my 
son, for so I would call you in these last moments, I 
am loth to part with your strong, young heart, for time 
and exile have made me old and sorrowing. 

GUALTIERI. 

I thank you for your gracious kindness. Count. 
l^Aside'] Dare I implore him to release me from my 
promise. 

Count. 

There is yet the money. 

GUALTIERI. 

Do not speak of that. 

Count. 
Ay, but even art must be paid. 

Gaualtieri. 
Art is never " paid." 

Count. 
True. But our bargain. 

GUALTIERI. 

"Bargain"! I came here one month ago to paint 
a portrait. 'T was no smug idealism of the schools, no 
picture of a dead past, manufactured of paint and pen- 
cil to fit a tradition and please a gaping crowd. I had 
left all that behind when I entered this house, high 
among the hills where Florence lies below; 'twas 

2 



lO 

none of this ; 't was living, breathing life, youth, beauty, 
purity itself; these in the figure of a young girl was I 
to make live and breathe within the canvas — there 
was only to see and understand, and let art give her 
simplest sign for nature — nothing more. 

Count. 
Art can do no more. 

GUALTIERI. 

Yet have we tried, and' done less. Men know so 
little till their souls are moved deeply. 

Count. 
So little, so little. 

GUALTIERI. 

Thus, my work took hold upon my heart, until she 
grew there, with all the unseen mystery of light and 
air between us, and became, to me, the spirit shadow 
of herself — the record of a new world of bright 
thought and tender cares : and, now I shall go back 
to my work in Rome, and drift along, a little stream, 
to be lost among those who work to please the many, 
for I shall never paint like that again. 

Count. 
And why not, my son ? 

Gualtieri. 

Because such moments come only once in a life like 
mine. 

Count. 

You think so, now. And yet the reputation which 
preceded you was great. 



II 

GUALTIERI. 

No. I have never painted like this before. [^ pause. 

Count. 

My son, sit down and listen to me. Somehow, I feel 
a strange longing to open my heart to you, ere you 
depart. Let me tell you why you are here. My child, 
who bears her mother's name, is now the image of my 
poor Marguerite when first I married her, in the proud 
days before my exile. Some little time ago I received 
private, friendly advices, that give me reason to believe 
my exile may soon end. Through years of misfortune 
this has been my one hope, or I had not suffered these 
indignities quite so peacefully, for I have many 
friends in France. When we resume our former 
station, my child shall unite our ancient name with the 
noblest blood in France. To this end I have kept her 
free of the small flatterers that flutter about the palaces 
of Florence. But, ere we should go, struck with her 
almost spiritual resemblance to her dead mother, I 
resolved upon this portrait and sent for you, thinking 
you to be, from your great renown, a man of years. I 
was surprised to see one so young. Never' from my 
side, my child was not skilled in knowledge of the 
world. This I confided to you, and gained your promise 
never to awaken by word or look feelings of love in 
her young and simple heart. You have kept th^-t 
promise faithfully, as became a man of honor. And 
now, it is for me to bring the money. 

GUALTIERI. 

" Money " ! nay. Count, I can take no money ; let me 
go as I came ; your kindness and my work my only 
reward. 

Count. 

Signor, I shall look for the same becoming courtesy 



12 

in this matter that I have found in you in every other. 
[Music as before.'] Hark ! what is that ? 

[Marguerite sings, off. 

Night, with thy dusky veil, 

Steal o'er my heart. 
Moon, with thy glances pale, 

Soften love's smart; 
Tho' Night's sweet cheek be near 
Each star 's a pensive tear, 
Songbird, thy note I hear. 

Lonely art tKou, and I 

Listen and sigh. 

[Marguerite enters while singing, crosses stage in moonlight and exits to grave. 

Count. 

Her mother's song ! Why will the child recall that 
plaintive lay ? Look ! \_As she goes] the spirit image of 
her mother. \Sinks on garde^i seat, overcome.] Mar- 
guerite, Marguerite ! 

SORELLA. [Off. 

Marguerite ! Marguerite ! [ The Count looks startled 
for a moment as if by an echo.] [Enter Sorella.] 
Marguerite ! where are you, dear? [Gualtieri, aside, 
signs to her to be sileitt, points to Count and then to 
grove ^ 

Marguerite. loff. 

Sorella ! Sorella ! 

Q Gualtieri. 

oORELLA. [ With a look of entreaty to 



Do not forget. 

Count. 



[Exit to grove. 



Why is the child so sad ? Of late she grows more 
pensive, more as her mother was. [ To Gualtieri.] Boy, 



13 

my heart will not keep silent to-night, let me unburthen 
it to you. My wife — my Marguerite — I loved her to . 
adoration, but I had not her love. She died. She left 
me a letter, a message from the dead. In it she told 
me she had loved another, before we met, a Spaniard, 
(like yourself, a painter), visiting the French Court. 
At first their love was silent, — boy, why do you 
stare at me like that ? [Gualtieri drops his gaze, the 
Count looks intently at him, and says, half aside'\ 
My heart is full of visions to-night. \Aloud^ The 
silence was, at length, broken, and he had to reveal 
his story ; he was already married, in Spain — married 
when a boy, by his guardian's will, to one whom he 
never loved. In despair the lovers parted. He left 
the French Court for home, but in course of time re- 
turned, free — his wife was dead. Meanwhile Margue- 
rite had obeyed her guardians, and was now my wife, 
and never saw him again. After our child was born 
she died, leaving me that poor letter, begging me to 
pardon her, and to pray for her soul's rest. 

Gualtieri. [Aside. 

Would that I were gone. 

Count. 

An exile, I came hither to find repose, and if her 
spirit ever returns to earth, as but now it seemed to 
me to do in the form of our child, she will know that 
my life-long answer to that poor prayer for forgiveness 
has been more and more love. Come ; let us go in. 

\_Enter FRANgois. 
FRANgOIS. 

My lord, here are letters from — from France, my 
lord! 

Count. 
From France? 



pRANgois. y 

\_Pressing letters to his lips before giving. 

From France. 

Count. 

Ah, Frangois, your heart, too, is far away in our 
beloved France. 

FRANgOIS. 

It is always France in my honored master's service. 

Count. 

From France. [ To FRANgois] Give the courier our 
best welcome, and I will come to him. 

FRANgois. 

Yes, my lord. And the men are ready with the 
Signor's baggage, and await your orders to saddle -the 
horses. 

GUALTIERI. 

I am ready. 

Count. 

No. Let them wait. \Exit Francois.] [ To Gual- 
TiERi] I must see you again. 

GUALTIERI. 

I will stay here, it will be my last look at the garden 
I have grown to love so well. 

Count. 

I will return hither. \Looking at seals of letters as 
he goes?^ What change is this ? from the King ! 

\.Exit. 



Wc 



15 

GUALTIERI. 



'^ould that age could see the sorrows of youth with 
the same eyes wherewith it sees its own ! 

\_Exii. 

\_Enter Margverite, followed by Sorella. 

Marguerite. \_Looking at the mom. 

Look, Sorella ! 

Sorella. 

Oh, a plague upon the moon, driving good people 
melancholy mad ; I have no patience with it ! 

Marguerite. 
Do not jest, Sorella. 

Sorella. 

A great, staring intruder on the gentle shades of 
night. Why, if a true lover wanted the blessing of 
darkness to steal away to his love, there 's the moon 
blazing away like day to spoil it all ! Or, if not, 't is 
shrunk to a crazy grin upon the face of night, fit leader 
for the winking dog-stars in its train. How are the 
flowers to sleep ? Come, laugh, dear, or I shall cry, too. 

Marguerite. 

Do not rail at the pensive moon, Sorella; it has a 
ring of tears around it like my poor heart. 

Sorella. 

It has no heart, the fickle thing ! And as for its ring 
of tears, that only means, as shepherds tell, that it will 
rain to-morrow, and our poor traveller will be drenched 
to the skin, riding on his lonely way to Rome. 



i6 



Marguerite. 



To-morrow? To-morrow he will be gone! Oh, 
Sorella, if I were but a man ! 



SORELLA. 

Or I, love ! I 'd take you to these gallant arms and 
kiss those tears from round your gentle heart, were 
every star in heaven a moon, and every moon a thou- 
sand times as bright as this bold thing to-night ! 



Marguerite. 

Sorella, sweet, you torture me ! He does not know, 
he has no eyes to see, he has no love for me, and I 
have loved in vain. Let me hide my face upon your 
breast, Sorella ; my heart is breaking. 



Sorella. 

Do not crush my pretty flowers, or never will I gather 
more for you. 

IVi ARGUERITE. [ Taking flowers from her breast. 

Look at them, Sorella, pansies, and a poor marguerite ; 
see how it is closed, how its heart is hidden away. 

Sorella. 

That 's the moon ! [ Takes flowers\ Hush ! here 
comes the Signor, raving to her as well. Oh, what a 
mischief-making thing to hang in heaven among those 
innocent stars ! 

\_Etiter GuALTiERi. 

Gualtieri. 

Pale mistress of the night, your beams will light me 
far from this dear place ere thou shalt rise again. 



17 

SORELLA. lAside to him. 

Do you see these flowers ? 

GUALTIERI. 

Sorella, you here ? 

SoRELLA. 

Do you see these flowers ? 



gualtieri. 
Sorella. 

gualtieri. 



Yes. 

What are they ^ 

Pansies. 

Sorella. 

That means — think : and — ? 

Gualtieri. 
A daisy. 

Sorella. 
What other pretty name has it ? 

Gualtieri. 
Marguerite. 

Sorella. 

Hush. [Points to where Marguerite sits in a reverie] 
See, it is closed, its heart is folded away — that 's the 
moon ! Hush. Does it not open to the sun ? that 's 
why it 's the ** day's-eye." Is it not closed to the 
moon ? that 's why it 's Marguerite. 

Gualtieri. 
Child, what phantasy is this ? 
3 



i8 

SORELLA. 

Banish thou the moon and make it day — if you love 
the night-closed flower tell it so — say that you — 
say any things but speak ! 



Sorella ! 

Go — speak to her, 



Marguerite. 
Sorella. 



[ To GUALTIERI. 



Marguerite. 
Sorella, come to me, dear. 



Sorella. 



I am near, love. 



Marguerite. 
Signor ! 

GUALTIERI. 

Nay, I would not intrude, I 



\_Sees GUALTIERI. 



Marguerite. 

Do not say that ; it would be a reproach to call your 
last hour with us an intrusion. Surely, we have de- 
served better. 

GUALTIERI. 

Nay, I did not mean 

o O R E LLA. \_Aside to him. 

Then say what you do mean. Why will men not 
say what they mean ? 



19 

Marguerite. 
You leave us, soon ? 



To-night. 
To-night ? 



gualtieri. 
Marguerite. 



GUALTIERI. 

The Count has sudden business which delays our 
parting, or, ere this, I had been gone. 

Marguerite. 

Gone? without one word to — to \^Ske almost 

faints and is supported by Sorella.] 

SORELLA. 

To either of us ? A nice way to leave good friends. 
For my part there is one I know upon the hill-side who 
knows his mind, and speaks it like a man ! He bids 
good-bye a hundred times for once, but he 

Marguerite. 
Sorella, sweet, in pity's name ! 

GUALTIERI. [Aside. 

Dare I but trust myself to speak. The moments 
fly like startled heart-throbs. There is pity in her face 
and in her voice, and yet my promise binds me dumb. 
Farewell, Mademoiselle, do not think me unkind, un- 
grateful ; had I left in silence it would only have been 
because the heart, sometimes, dare not trust itself to 
speak. 

Marguerite. 

I know, but to leave us so were cruel. 



20 

GuALtlERI. 

I came here a few short weeks ago, leaving the noisy- 
world behind me, and the sweet quiet of this place has 
stolen over me, and filled my heart too full to speak. 
So the spring babbles at its fount but the deep, full pool 
o'erflows in silence. Wandering through the garden 
to take a last fond look, what wonder had I turned away 
without the pang of spoken words, for here, where all 
around breathes love and peace, have I found a new 
life, a new world, that makes the thought of Rome a 
desert ! 

Marguerite. 

But you will soon forget. 

GUALTIERI. 

In mercy pray that I may. 

Marguerite. 
You leave us to-night ? 

Gualtieri. 
Yes, yes, in a little while. 

Marguerite. 
You haste away, eagerly ? 

Gualtieri. 
Yes, oh, yes ! 

Marguerite. 
Why ? Why go to-night ? 

Gualtieri. 

'T will save a lingering day. 'Tis but a league to 
Florence. By daybreak I shall leave thence for Rome. 
The sooner I am gone 



M 



21 

Marguerite. 
The sooner you will forget. 

GUALTIERI. 

'T is most merciful to hope that it may be so. 

SORELLA. 

The Count! 

[Enter ZoMSiT, followed by Francois. 

Count. 

Draw near, all of you ! These letters bring great 
news. Come, Marguerite, my child. Led into great 
trouble by evil counsels, the King calls upon me to 
resume my former station. 

Marguerite. 
The King? 

Count. 
In a few days we shall return to France. 

Marguerite. 
To France ? 

Count. 

The possessions of my ancestors are restored to me. 
Once more I shall see my native land, our beloved 
France. 

Marguerite. 
Father ! 

Francois. 
Master ! 

Count. 

My faithful Frangois, you and yours shall reap the 
reward. of service in exile. Go! tell them all; give 
them wine and bid them rejoice ; for in a few days we 



22 

set out for France. The King sends gallant troops to the 
frontier to take us back in state, a cavalcade of joy and 
triumph. [Exit FRANgois] The spirit of my race 
revives within me ! Once more my voice shall sway 
the counsels of my King; once more my labors be 
devoted to the service of our beloved France. Thus 
do I live down mine enemies. Patience, thou art ever 
the keystone of a master-mind. 

Marguerite. 
Father, father! 

Count. 
Why do you weep, my child ? 

Marguerite. 
We must leave this dear place. 

Count. 
We shall go to France. 

Marguerite. 

France has been so far away, so long ; and our little 
home, here, has been so kind and sweet. 

Count. 

There are flowers, and groves, and noble trees in 
France, surpassing all the earth beside. Ay, and 
pageants and gallant hearts to boot. And thy beauty 
shall come upon the court like a lily in the noon-day 
sun. Would that you had been a man, there had been 
a proud future before you. 

Marguerite. 
I want but peace and love. 



?3 

Count. 

Ay, a woman, a woman. But we shall find you a 
proud and gallant lover ! 

Marguerite. 

Nay, father, my heart is humble, and asks only for 
the heart it loves. 

Count. 

And you shall have it, among the proudest nobles 
of our land, where there is no higher lineage than your 
own ; none meaner shall dare to pay his court to you — 
that I vow ! 

SORELLA. 

And all your poor friends will be forgotten, great 
Count. 

Count. 

You shall bring your chatter with us, child. 

SORELLA. 

There is a youth that farms upon the hill, I would 
not change away for the grandest king on earth. 

Count. 

Well, there shall be a dower when your mistress 
grants you leave. [Sees Gualtieri] Ah, signor, I 
had forgotten. But this is strange news to-night, after 
all these years. Yet God is wise as He is merciful. 
We have known adversity, but sorrow chastens the 
heart and teaches much ; it is the nurse alike of wis- 
dom, love, and genius. You, too, have had a troubled 
life. There is a sign upon your picture, of an anchor, 
which bears a history, we hear. Tell us ; that we may 
explain it to our friends at court, who may yet be 
counted amongst your proudest patrons. 



24 

GUALTIERI. 

I do not want their patronage ! 

Count. 

Nay, leave bold speeches for warriors, their power 
can do much for you. 

GUALTIERI. 

I do not seek it. 

Count. 
Have you no ambition ? 

GUALTIERI. 

Yes ! the ambition that lies within my art, not out- 
side it. I have no greed for the favor of courtiers; 
when they want me they will come to me. My art 
survives the warrior's glory; there shall be princes 
remembered only by it. 

Count. 
You forget yourself ; you are too proud. 

Gualtieri. 

"Too proud," then gratitude is pride ! My art lifted 
me out of the bonds of hard fortune and the humblest 
labor, to the company of the highest of the earth's most 
high, its men of intellect. No courtier's patronage did 
that, it was my art, and I am proud. 

Count. 
There is blood in you as well. 

Gualtieri. 
I care not. 



25 

Count. 
Nay, be not offended ; I would not hurt thy feelings. 

GUALTIERI. 

I crave your pardon, Count My heart wanders and 
speaks in haste, I know not why. 

Count. 
Let us hear why you are called Gualtieri del Ancora. 

GUALTIERI. 

My story is but a poor one. 

Count. 
Go on, we have hearts to listen. 

Gualtieri. 
I was born in Spain. 

Count. \_Half aside. 

A Spaniard? 

Gualtieri. 

My mother died when I was but a little child, and 
while my father was abroad. 

Count. 
Yes. 

Gualtieri. 

After his return he left Spain suddenly for Rome, 
taking me with him. I remember him well ; he seemed 
bowed down with a great sorrow and spoke but little. 

\_A pause. 

Marguerite. 
Tell us more. 
4 



26 

GUALTIERI. 

A tempest wrecked the ship, and all, save I, were 
drowned. Some poor people of the coast rescued me, 
and took me to their home. I grew among them, 
they taught me to work at their trade, and I became a 
shipwright. My father was a painter. 

Count. 
A painter ? 

GUALTIERI. 

The instinct was strong within me. Artists came 
down to the sea to paint, and I loved to watch and 
imitate them. It grew upon me, it absorbed my 
whole soul, until it was my life, my existence. From a 
dead sailor, cast naked from the storm, upon the beach, 
I dared to paint a Crucifixion for our little chapel on 
the cliff, and signed it with a symbol of my trade and 
of the sea, — an anchor. 

Count. 

I have heard of the picture, 't was sent to Rome by 
order of his Holiness the Pope. 

GUALTIERI. 

Yes. A great master saw it, and took me to his 
studio in Rome, and bade me "work and learn, and 
work." And, now, men call me Gualtieri del Ancora. 

Count. 

And a famous name for one so young, and will be 
greater still if you but curb your pride a little. Have 
you no other name ? 

Gualtieri. 

There was a trinket found upon me bearing our 
name and crest. 



27 

Count. 
Yes. 

GUALTIERI. 

A priest wrote to Spain and learnt that my father, 
though of noble descent, had no claim to wealth. It all 
ended there. 

Count. 

What was thy father's name ? 

GUALTIERI. 

Diego Vasquehama. 

Count. ^^side. 

Merciful God! — Marguerite — the same! There is 
some fate in the air. [ To Marguerite] Come, child, 
it is growing chill. \_To Gualtieri] I will see you 
ere you depart. 

lExii Count. 

Q [_To Marguerite, wko is 

oORELLA. following Count. 

Stay near. 

Marguerite. 
I cannot. Sorella, my heart is breaking. 

SORELLA. 

I know, love, but stay. 

Marguerite. 

No, let me go. He will soon be gone, he will soon 
forget, he does not love. 

Sorella. 

Hush, dear ! He put the flowers I took from your 
breast, next his heart, when I said they were yours. 



28 

Marguerite. 

He does not understand them. It is his art only 
to see the outside of things, the form, the color, but 
no more — he cannot read the heart. 

SORELLA. 

There is some other cause for his silence. 

Marguerite. 
Some other cause ? What ? 

Sorella. 
I know not, I only guess. 

Marguerite. 
What do you guess ? 

Sorella. 
Some sense of honor. 

Marguerite. ■ 
Oh, 't is cruel. 

Sorella. ' 

Nay, 't is most sweet, and delicate. You forget, you 
are rich and noble. 

Marguerite. 

What can I do, Sorella? This silence breaks my 
heart — it will kill me to part thus from him for ever. 

Sorella. 

I know that, love, and I have faith in love, or I 
would not answer you. Will you trust me, dear ? 



29 

Marguerite. 
What would you do ? 

SORELLA. 

Say yes. 

Marguerite. 
Yes. 

Sorella. 

Now listen. Stay you near, in the garden. I will 
come to you. 

Marguerite. 

But, Sorella ? 

Sorella. 

Not one word. (Exit Marguerite ) (To Gual- 
tieri.) What have you done with those flowers? 

Gualtieri. 
They are here. 

Sorella. 

Give them back to me. 

Gualtieri. 
No, let me keep them. 

Sorella. 
Why? 

Gualtieri. 

Let me keep them. 

Sorella. 

Why? \a pause^ No! give them to me back. You 
do not care for them. 

Gualtieri. 
Do not say that, Sorella. 



30 

SORELLA. 

You do not understand them. 

GUALTIERI. 

Well, take them, you do not know. 

SoRELLA. 

Look, you have crushed them ; the poor daisy is 
almost dead. Alas, poor, pretty Marguerite, the hand 
that crushed away your life has no word, no, not one 
word of pity for you ; not one word ! Ah ! who would 
be a man and be so blind and cruel. 

GUALTIERI. 

Sorella, my child ! do not say those things — do not 
speak like that; you wring my heart — do not speak. 

oGRELLA. [Coming back to him. 

Would you have us all dumb ? 

GUALTIERI. 

I must be silent. 

Sorella. 

Silence is for slaves that dare not speak, and stones 
that cannot feel. 

Gualtieri. 

Think, child, you heard what the Count said but now. 
Think of who and what I am. 

Sorella. 
You are a man and have a heart. 

Gualtieri. 
I am a man and remember my honor. 



31 

SORELLA. 

Oh, a fig for your men's honor; keep it for cold 
steel as you would your pride for courtiers, and your 
silence for enemies — there is no love in you ! 

GUALTIERI). 

Sorella ! . . . I know what you mean ... I know 
. . . but I dare not . . . you do not know. 

Sorella, 
Tell me. 

GUALTIERL 

I cannot — I must not. I have said too much already. 
Go. It can never be. 

Sorella. 

Why not ? there is no other ? Oh ! tell me, tell me 
there is no other ! 

GUALTIERI. 

There is no obstacle on earth, except her own sweet 
welfare. 

o O RE LLA. [ Giving flowers. 

Take these in your hand and vow you speak the 
truth. 

GUALTIERI. 

What whim is this ? 

Sorella 
I did not think of that, — vow ! 

Gualtieri. 

By the passing breath of these poor, drooping flowers, 
*t is true, I vow. 



32 

SORELLA. 

Now look ! by yonder staring madness -maker, that 
deserves to be kicked into a million, harmless, speckling 
stars, all over heaven, were I a man and loved a maid 
I 'd speak out and give her heart a chance to say yea 
or nay, if it brought a world toppling down about the 
ears of those who stood between — that is, if I loved. 

Marguerite. \_off. 

Sorella ! 

SoRELLA. 

Listen. I must go. 'T is not for me to betray what 
one alone should say to you, so think over what I have 
said and tell me your resolve when I return. 

Marguerite. \^off. 

Sorella ! 

Sorella. 

I am coming, love. \^To Gualtieri] Come — sit 
there — do not move, so I can find you quickly. \Aside\ 
What stupid things men are without a woman's wit to 
aid. 

\^Exit Sorella. 

Gualtieri. 

No ! youth is always on the side of love. I must 
go. Why does the child torture me thus ? I must 
keep my promise to the end, if my heart falls dead. 
I am right — right to remember myself — right to think 
for her ! I must go at once — and yet my heart 
rebels — I shall go mad — I shall never, never see her 
face again ! 

\_Enter Marguerite, veiled. 

Marguerite. 
Signor ! 



33 

GUALTIERI. 

Do not tempt me, Sorella. I have resolved. What- 
ever be my heart, I will not speak. I gave a promise 
to her father — that promise I must devoutly keep. 



Marguerite. [_Aside. 



Ah ! it was thus. 



GUALTIERI. 

And why should I reach so high to cull myself so 
fair a flower. I have no rank, no wealth. My art 
brought me hither. I shall go as I came. In honor I 
am bound — in honor I shall go. No words can move 
me, my mind is made up for ever ! 



You do not love. 
Not Jove ! 



Marguerite. [ Tummg to go. 

Gaultieri. 



Marguerite. 
You do not love her ? 

GUALTIERI. 

Not love her ! Were I but free to speak — free to 
tell her all I suffer — were all else but love to be cast 
aside and forgotten, I should pour forth such a tale as 
surely man never did before ! Pent up, stifled to tor- 
turing silence, my love is a hidden fire that consumes 
my heart to ashes ! Not love her ? How do I bear it? 
How do I not seek her and fling myself at her feet and 
tell her the agony I am suffering? Not love her! — 
would that I were dead! 



Gualtieri ! 



34 

Marguerite. 



Gualtieri. 



Go ! leave me, Sorella — do not speak, or I shall 
go mad, for I love her with a passionate longing that 
carries me away, beyond all, honor, reason, man- 
hood — everything ! My heart is leaping in a frenzy 
of love — my hands grasping-mad to take her to 
these arms and tell her there is no life on earth for 
me — no hope, no strength, now, where she isiiot — for 
I love her, and none but her, now and for ever ! 



Marguerite. 


[ Who has drawn nearer and 
nearer to him sinks faint- 
ing to the ground. 


Gualtieri — my love — at last, at 


last! 


Gualtieri. 


\_Kneeling by her. 


Sorella ! Sorella ! 




Sorella. 


iOff. 


Marguerite ! Marguerite ! 




Gualtieri. 




Saints in heaven ! 




Sorella. 


[Enter Sorella. 


Marguerite ! 




Gualtieri. 




Sorella ? 




Sorella. 


\_Kneeling by Marguerite. 


What is this ! 




Gualtieri. 


[Aside. 



What have I done ? 



35 

oORELLA. \_Offering handkerchief . 

Here, dip this in the fountain, yonder in the grove ; 
stay, I have perfume — the Count may come — she 
revives, thank God — Marguerite, love, it is I, Sorella; 
speak, love. 

Marguerite. 
Gualtieri, Gualtieri, come to me ! 

Sorella. 
Signor ! 

Marguerite. iRising. 

Gualtieri — where are you ? Speak to me — again — 
again. 

Gualtieri. lAside. 

What have I done ? 

Marguerite. 

Gualtieri, do not turn away from me, I long to hear 
your voice — I am yearning to hear your voice again. 

Gualtieri. 
Mademoiselle, I 

Marguerite. 

Ah, no — not thus. Tell me again — again, that 
you love me. 

Gualtieri. 
I — I cannot. 

Marguerite. 

No ! Do not say that ! . . . Am I dreaming ? . . . 
am I awake, alive ? . . . Sorella ? . . . Gualtieri ? 
. . . look at me . . . you told me so ! . . . 



36 

SORELLA. 

Signer, in pity's name. 

Marguerite. 

You told me so ? Oh, say that I am not dreaming 
. . you told me that you loved me ? . . . 

GUALTIERI. 

Idid — I did. 

Marguerite. 
Then tell me now, again. 

GUALTIERI. 

It is true, — it is true. But I did not know 



Marguerite. 

Then I heard it, and I am awake, — I heard it all ! 
You love me, you love me ? 

Gualtieri. 
God help me ; yes. 

Marguerite. 

Gualtieri, listen to me. Time is throbbing fast 
away, too fast for many words ; the heart too full to 
hide a single thought. Think what you will of me, 
and though my eyes may blind with blushes, I must 
speak, or you will be gone from me for ever. Listen. 
From the first hour I saw you, and heard your voice, I 
was changed. I was not the Marguerite of old. A 
child before, a dreamer, I awoke to find myself a 
woman. Unconsciously, all else but you faded away 



37 

into shadowland ; you were my only reality ; you were 
all I could see, think of, live for. To watch you was 
now my only happiness. I am not clever, Gualtieri, 
but I had learned to understand you. Then, as the 
end drew near, a new feeling came to me, a sense of 
yearning, a longing to hear you speak to me as you 
spoke of your work, and of your art. Why should it 
be ? I asked myself, and my poor selfish heart answered, 
was I not the living, loving substance of the painter's 
shadow? Since then I have lived a new and inex- 
pressibly lonely life, day by day, all else but you 
widening away from my heart, like ripples from a 
pebble flung into the bosom of a deep, still pool, until 
there was no one in all the world but you — none but 
you and me, Gualtieri and Marguerite. 

Gualtieri. 

Nay, there are nobles in France, what am I to them 
with but my art ? 

Marguerite. 
Your genius — I adore it. 

Gualtieri. 
My life of work. 

Marguerite. 
I will share it, 

Gualtieri. 
My years are beyond thine. 

Marguerite. 
They but deepen your love. 

Gualtieri. 

They must give me wisdom now, if only out of love 
for you. 



38 

Marguerite. 

Gualtieri, when two hearts beat as one there is no 
wisdom but love. 

Gualtieri. 
You do not know 

Marguerite. 

Gualtieri 

Gualtieri. 

The world outside is full of storms for one so gently 
nurtured. 

Marguerite. 

I have courage, and can learn. 

Gualtieri. 
Nay, you remind me. 

Marguerite. 

Gualtieri, do not put me from you ; it is too late. 
You say you love me — your heart, like mine, is full to 
bursting — it is too late now, for / love you. 

Gualtieri. 

Marguerite ! 

Marguerite. 

Ah, my name ! \Enter Count, at back?[ Gualtieri, 
we cannot part — part? no, never! I will implore my 
father not to be so cr^uel. 

Gualtieri. 
Nay, I had given a promise. 

Marguerite. 
'T was broken by no fault of your own. 



39 

GUALTIERI. 

'T was a promise, and 't is broken. 

SORELLA. 

So be it ! Those who make fetters for love hold slip- 
pery prisoners, ^Sees Count, Ae beckons her to silence 
and to come to him; they listen^ 

Marguerite. 

'T is true, Gualtieri. 'T is as tho' a great giant had 
closed the mouth of a little stream with a huge rock, 
but deep down in the great heart of nature the waters 
welled up, and up, until the mighty stone trembled like 
a leaf upon an autumn bough, waiting but half the 
whisper of a sigh, or a wondering touch, to hurl it 
before a torrent that a world of giants could not put 
back into the earth again. Take me to your heart, 
Gualtieri, we can never part now, and tell me, again, 
that you love me. 

Gualtieri. 



me 



My darling — there is no life on earth for 
without your love, for I love you with all my soul. 

f^ [ Coming forward and offering bag 

L.OUNT. of money to Gualtieri. 

You have broken your promise. 

Marguerite. 
Speak gently to him, father, for my sake. 

Count. [ to gualtieri. 

Men say this portrait you have made is no common 
inspiration. Look down, deep into your heart and tell 
me the truth — how was it done ? 



40 

GUALTIERI. 

'T was not for gold. If you ask me what the inspira- 
tion was, how all else before that I had painted was, to 
this, but as dumb signs to speech itself, sir, with truth, I 
answer you — 't was that which surpasses all that life 
can boast, ambition, wealth, power, 't was that which in 
our poor, human breasts is nearest on earth to what is 
divine in heaven — 't was love, lifelong, unalterable love. 

\_Enier FRAN50IS. 

Francois. 
My lord, the horses are at the gate. 

Count. 

Unsaddle them, the Signor will not leave us to-night. 
[Exit Francois] [Aside'] Marguerite, in these two 
children is thy love united. 

Marguerite. 
Father ! 

Count. 

My child, you are more than ever like unto your 
mother, to-night. [ To Gualtieri] You will not leave 
us, my son, there is much to say. [To Sorella, smil- 
ing-'] Thou foolish child ! 

Curtain. 




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